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Keller left early without a word, locking his paintings in a closet before leaving.

Afraid I trash something, Mr Keller? Toby thought with bitter amusement, looking at the dark silhouette walking down the hill.

He stood by the window for a while looking at the sparkling snow, blinding white, and the bright golden mimosas; the sea was a deep green under the blue sky.

But even the beauty of the place, the breathtaking view, didn’t explain how a young American gang member who probably knew nothing else than the lowly places where he'd lived before had chosen this particular place to lay down his bag; why he'd worked like a slave to turn a ruined shack into a decent house; spending 13 years of a secluded honest lonely life when he could’ve got any dirty lucrative job somewhere; elsewhere. Had someone helped him? Had it been a love at first sight kind of decision? Had he been so badly haunted that he'd felt compelled to change in such a drastic way, afraid maybe that someday he got caught, killed? Had the slaughter been some hideous epiphany ?

"It makes me mad," he confessed to the black cat curled up on his knees, reluctant to freeze his paws in the snow outside "that he managed so well when I failed so miserably."

"Let's face it, cat; I'd dreamt of a slightly more exciting life, more exciting job; I have a wife I love mildly and after last night I know for sure that my sex life has been a mess until then …"

The cat pawed Beecher 's thigh, purring and shifted to find a more enjoyable position.

He remained sitting in front of the fire for a long time, tired and sore, his body still tingling with last night's sensations, bruises, lips swollen from the kisses, ashamed of how easily he'd given in to Keller's nimble lovemaking.

When the cat finally stirred and walked away, Toby rose and stepped out, shivering in the cold. Far away, clouds were gathering; they'd been of a shining white turning into a soft grey as morning went by; soon everything would lie under their threatening gloom.

Keller returned around 2 in the afternoon to find Beecher half-asleep on the couch, a cold intact coffee beside him.

Keller set down the bags he was carrying, gave him a quick annoyed look and began to put away the food he'd bought.

"Went to the village, met some friends, had a drink and lunch with a woman I know … Hoped that when I come back you'd be gone but no such luck; you're still here. Did you miss me?"

"Same fucking weather until Saturday. They closed the airports and some main roads. No planes, no trains, no buses; looks like you're stuck here."

Keller rose. Walking up to Beecher , he rested his hands on the suddenly tense shoulders and asked "So, how much do you hate me today?"

"I thought so," Keller said, burying his nose in Beecher's hair, circling his waist with his arms.

"Fuck you," Beecher said just when Keller's mouth took his, long fingers roaming over his skin, holding his chin, a hand pressing against the small of his back. Sharp teeth bit Keller's lips and he had to let go.

"You're full of shit, Mr Beecher," he said, licking his lips, tasting blood, shrugging and letting go of him "Now come on, I wanna show you something."

A minute later, standing in front a white canvas, a black pen in his hands, Toby was listening to Keller's words.

So Toby did; he had an elegant cursive writing; a bit too adorned maybe; but the words stung.

"The message will pervade the whole painting; that's the important thing, you can't see them but they're still here somewhere, a message to me, to the fucking world."

All right, Toby thought, he's *that* crazy; but he sat in a corner of the room and watched; watched while Keller painted a blue light background over his words of hate and scorn, not quite hiding them; long strokes of the brush, choosing the shades of blue and the directions of the strokes with the same care he'd taken in choosing the angles of his thrusts while fucking him.

Keller painted all afternoon while Beecher read, fed the fire, took a walk out in the cold, made coffee again. As predicted, snow began falling and around 6, and Toby spent a fascinating moment watching the sky turn to an even dark grey before freeing the first flakes; a test obviously, a vanguard preceding the final assault. When it happened there was nothing left to see, just snow falling, relentless, and a dark ending day sinking into a winter night.

Eventually Keller stretched, put down his brushes, washed them, washed his hands, put everything away and looked at Beecher engrossed in book he'd found in Keller's room. Somerset Maugham's "The moon and sixpence". An appropriate choice, Keller thought.

The Doors; John Lee Hooker, Eric Burdon... Keller's musical tastes were unexpected, as was the man himself.

"I don't listen to music a lot," Keller said, "My right ear isn't very good; got hurt there long ago. Can't get stereo, you know, that kind of things. And the records, actually, they belonged to my elder brother; the fucker died when I was a kid, I inherited the books, the records. It's the only music I still listen to. Old stuff."

This peek at Keller's privacy was unsettling, forcing Beecher to admit the quixotic monster his mind had been picturing for so long was nothing but real, human, a man who loved, suffered and got hurt; and the smile Keller gave him, the dreamy warm smile made him smile back.

After dinner they ended in bed again, wrapped in each other's sweaty scent, warmth and arms, breathing against each other's skin after sex, resting their head on the other's shoulder; entangled in the blanket and groaning when a move pulled it off their body, scooting impossibly closer to get more heat, waiting for next round, desire flaring dangerously again.

The next day went the same way and so did the whole week. It was easy to fall into a routine; Keller was right, it was a game they were both playing, refusing to think any further than the moment where they'd fall asleep in each other's arms.

At dawn Keller would wake up, rustle, shift, groan, still wrapped around Toby's body, Toby's arms still locked around him; early morning fucking had nothing romantic or subtle, it was just about bringing each other off and they both proved formidably good at that, using their hand, their mouth, their whole body. After that Keller walked away. Left to his own devices Toby would take long walks across the country; walk down to the village; rent a car to visit the surroundings, go to Nice, Cannes and buy souvenirs for the kids and Gen, write her letters, call her on the phone. She listened, trying to understand him; and failing.

She didn't, not really; she was focused on the unborn child; her mother had settled with her and Gen didn't need a man; not now; maybe never again, she thought sometimes, scared by her own indifference. The kids missed their father like kids do; but the gifts that landed regularly in the mailbox, the cards and the phone calls more or less made up for the absence, or that's what Gen wanted to believe.

Keller had the feeling that Beecher would stay; like the black half-wild cat that kept coming for more when he was hungry or tired and that didn't even have a name, Beecher would stick around. He'd been spending a long time outside these past weeks; he was slightly tanned and slimmer, hot as hell and crazy and fucking rough, or sweet as honey, but as addictive as a top quality drug. Chris woke up every day thinking he'd kick his ass out; get rid of the guy; but the sight of him confidently curled up against him had something utterly moving. The idea of sending him away that kept growing during the day vanished at nightfall when desire took over. And probably, he thought, Beecher woke up every morning determined to leave and didn't. What did that make them? He didn't want to know; stuff you don't acknowledge don't exist. He focused on work, and sex, refused to think any further.

"What the fuck are you doing all morning?" Beecher asked Keller one day, in vain. Working at the gallery where he had a phone and a computer, probably; what else? When he came back around 2 in the afternoon he settled himself in the little room and painted until nightfall, his back on the window, his canvas bathed in a bright daylight. Sometimes Beecher went in and watched him like he'd done the first time. They didn't exchange more than ten words in the whole day, ate in silence, lost in their own world.

But at night... At night the barriers fell down, wariness and anger vanished, whatever had happened during the day was meaningless then, past and future disappeared; they shared the same world, the same words and Beecher's body acknowledged Keller's body as the perfect complement of his own, didn't let go of it, drowned in it, gave in to the touch of it and Keller did the same; hours spent luxuriating in all sorts of sexual delights, then just lying in each other's arms.

"When I was a kid," Keller said once "I thought nothing was real, except me. Just a dream that I kept alive. I believed that places vanished when I walked away and people stopped leaving when I didn't need them."

"Yeah, some ancient philosophers already taught that the world we live in is only a figment of our imagination."

"I still feel this way sometimes but I don't think you're a dream; I think you're fucking real."”

That was probably some compliment, Toby thought. And he didn't confess it of course but every minute he spent with Keller was more real than any moment in his own life had ever been before; he supposed Keller knew that. In his dreams, Leslie's ghost was often walking away from him with a disappointed backward glance, dressed in her vaporous bloodstained summer dress; and during the day it was hard to remember her face or the sound of her voice that used to come so easily to him a few weeks ago.

"I feel terrible about that," he told Gen one day. And Gen didn't answer because she thought that at last maybe he was letting go of Leslie, abandoning her, acknowledging her for what she was, ashes; and it didn't really matter where he was or what he was doing, if this journey could turn Toby into a happier man, a renewed man, she'd give him the time he needed.

Snow melted fast and spring turned the mountain into a bright palette of colours, wild flowers, early spring trees blossoming everywhere. Beecher still didn't talk about leaving; and Keller didn't ask.

About a month after Beecher 's arrival, O'Reily called Keller at the gallery, using a cell phone he'd robbed from a dead inmate some days ago. From the beginning, nearly twenty years ago Cyril had been the crazy, violent, bold one; smart and ruthless as much as Chris was; but Ryan was the leader of the gang. Maybe that was the reason why Keller told him about Beecher ; what was going on. There was a stunned silence and Ryan's voice, hard.

"You owe me big time on that, Keller; you were supposed to finish the job and you didn't; part of what happened is your fault; Beecher was the one who identified me, it's because of him that the fucking cops got me. If you'd killed him, K'boy, I'd probably be free."

There was an underlying threat in Ryan's voice that Keller didn't like. He said he knew what he had to do, he was just playing with his prey, he'd always loved doing so and Ryan said yeah, he remembered that and how Cyril used to do the same. They talked a little longer, about the good times that were gone for them both. Then Chris hung up and sat at his desk, playing with a pen; thought about it for a while. He could ask Ronnie but Ronnie had never been the smartest boy and for this job Keller needed someone smart and trained and reliable; a name came to his mind and he smiled inwardly, dialled the number; it probably was his lucky day; Schilllinger was home.

"Remember that guy I rid you of two years ago? I took a lot of risks then; you said you'd pay me back."

"I want someone dead; listen, maybe you know him; you're the only one I trust on that because he's a fucking smart dangerous guy, and a cautious one."

"O'Reily. Ryan O'Reily; I think you were in the same hell hole before your parole. He's become... how d'ya say? A liability."

"Yeah, I know the greedy little shit, tries to poach on every one's territory; always scheming and cheating... He'd sell his grandmother to succeed. That's him, then? OK, I'll tell the Brotherhood to take care of him. Anything else?"

"Please, don't be rude, Keller. Where's the old trust gone, did I ever fail you?'

Which fucking trust are you talking about, bald sadistic motherfucker? I'd get rid of you too if you gave me a chance. But he just laughed.

After that Keller could breath again; he rubbed his hands against his face, feeling weary; went to the bar; chatted with the man who ran the place, drank a bit, tasted a new wine, bought two bottles of it thinking he'd drink them with Beecher and took the way back home, hoping to hell his plan would work because if it didn't Ryan wouldn't be long to understand who'd ordered the hit and Keller didn't want to die yet; there were a lot of things in his head that needed to be painted; a lot of demons to ward off. Hell would have to wait a little longer.

That night, long before dawn, Keller switched on the little lamp at the head of the bed to look at his sleeping companion; pulling the blanket down and letting his eyes roam over the naked body. He brushed his fingertips along the pale scar under the collarbone, where the skin was thin and white and silky; memories of a shattered past. Then he ran the back of his hand down from the beautiful shoulders to the muscled thighs, enjoying the silky warmth of the hairless chest, the hard belly and the softness of blond pubic hair. In his sleep Beecher moaned and Keller grinned. Time for a little fun, he thought, grabbing the lube on the night table, coating his own cock with it, then pulling Toby to him, spreading his cheeks and entering him without any preparation but hey, the motherfucker had been rough sooner, pushing Chris down to the floor, taking him doggie style, an arm across his shoulders to keep him still. It was warm and tight inside, tighter and warmer than any other body he'd been in and when Beecher moved in surprise and shock, the powerful muscles squeezed his cock hard and he had to clench his teeth not to come right there like a kid; a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead with the effort and he closed his eyes.

Toby had to clutch the sides of the mattress not to be flung out of the bed, tensing every muscle to take the strength of Keller's body working inside and around his own, pushing him further into desire and need until he was sure he couldn't wait a second longer.

That was Keller's forte; pushing Beecher far beyond his limits, take more than what Beecher even knew he had to offer and give him back exactly what he needed. Toby didn't know when he lost control, he didn't realize he was moaning and hissing and arching his body to meet the other man's thrusts, clutching his shoulders, his arms, pulling him into a searing kiss, scratching his chest, his belly to try and force him into pleasure, take Keller with him, take him into the abysses of delight.

"Please don't let me go alone," he thought, and probably it was a loud thought because Chris bent over as much as he could to kiss him and said "I won't."

Yeah, Keller thought as he came deep inside the trembling body locked in his arms, if this is how Satan lured the angels, then he knew why they fell; and if feeling so much pleasure meant being doomed, then he called damnation upon him every day of his fucking life.

<> My life as a foreign country <>

chapter 4